


Course Set

by paxnirvana



Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-13
Updated: 2010-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxnirvana/pseuds/paxnirvana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles. All ZoSan (or SanZo). Not necessarily connected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Playing With Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Zoro POV

It's hot in the kitchen -- far hotter than it is out on deck where he was before the need for water drove him inside -- and the cook is like fire in his arms. Searingly hot. Burning his bare chest even through the cook's shirt and damn apron. The cook's clever hands flicker over him like fire too. Brushing, scraping his back, his shoulders, burying themselves in the bristle of hair on the back of his head. He hears a moan. Doesn't know the source for certain. From the cook? His own mouth? But even if such a pansy sound did come from him, he can't stop sucking on that ash-fouled tongue or swallowing down that smoke-tinged breath. Or stop the way his hands knead and stroke over the other man's tight, rounded, perfectly compact ass. The sound comes again. Pagan and needy. From the other's throat, he's almost certain now. Not that it really matters.

Not with the way his own blood is pounding harder than it ever does during battle. He can feel it in his veins, throbbing molten and heavy; heated even more by the way the cook arches in his hold now, one long, firm leg winding around his thighs as they sway there beside the sink. Somehow the cook has molded their bodies even more closely together, if that was even possible.

His mouth just moves. Like his hands clench, his arms trap. He can't think now. Can only feel. And it's nothing like battle and yet a touch of the same edgy surge of caution is always there. Because if Sanji ever decides he doesn't want this, he'd have his head caved in by a flashing foot before he ever touched that lean waist, he knows. Ever got a chance to slide his hands around it. Or stroke down to the ripple of muscle below. Devour that smoke-tinted breath...

The cook still might turn on him later, though. He's fickle that way; especially if the girls have been more attentive for some reason. But he can't stop himself from reaching whenever he finds the cook alone. It's like lifting weights that should kill him or doing kata until his muscles tear and his mind is black with exhaustion; it's necessary.

The heat of the kitchen is Sanji's heat. And he can't deny it; the heat that can warm and soothe but also burn.

But then Zoro's always been the kind who played with fire.

-fin-


	2. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanji fucking Zoro

The room was almost blisteringly hot now. Or maybe it was just them, Sanji mused as his grip slipped through the sweat thick on the other man's shoulder. Hand shifting to thick biceps instead, his grip on a hipbone was still secure, but both sets of fingers clenched tighter on slick flesh as he rocked his own hips forward again.

"Unh! Harder you pussy bastard!" More hissed breath than words, they still fired his blood. For a moment he was tempted to pull out entirely. But only for a moment.

Instead he pulled back sharply, cock sliding almost free before he slammed back in again. Brutally hard. The way he knew the other liked it. Until the only thing heard was the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, damp and sticky. The body in front of him jumped and shook as he worked it mercilessly.

Pausing a moment to catch his breath, the gleam of sweat on sun-bronzed skin as it trickled over flexing muscle in the reflected light off the sea caught his eye. He leaned down and licked slowly along the dip of spine leading toward the thick neck, his own breath puffing hot across hotter skin. He tasted sweat-salt and the sea and something that was only Zoro.

The swordsman groaned and shuddered harder beneath him as he leaned closer, pressing his belly to the other's slick back, his thighs shoved between the other's spread legs. Broad hands flexed where they were splayed against the floor in front of them bracing them both.

He heard an annoyed growl. "Don't stop now, stupid cook."

He just smiled against the other's skin. Lipped and licked along the hard triangle of muscle at the base of the other's neck a moment longer as he held himself deep and unmoving inside Zoro's body before he shifted his hand from the swordsman's hip down toward the straining cock. Closed his hand around it firmly to the accompaniment of a gut-deep groan from the other, further complaints abruptly cut off as he ran his thumb hard over the slick, weeping head. His smile widened.

It was rare that they were both completely naked like this, but it was a hot, windless afternoon and they'd been swimming in the sea on the lee side in order to cool off. But coming back aboard, the anchor deck had been temptingly empty, with the rest of the crew taking shelter from the blasting sun on the stern under the mizzen sail or Nami-san's mikan trees. He'd pushed the door open and drug the other inside with no more than a pointed look and a single fingertip crooked into the waistband of damp shorts.

Swimming with the shitty bastard always made him horny, Sanji acknowledged ruefully, stroking Zoro firmly from root to tip, grip tight. Fucker had no right to be so graceful in the sea when he moved with only blunt practicality on land.

There was a soft chiming sound as the other's head bent forward in response to his strokes, almost instantly drowned out by the deep, reluctant groan that spilled from the other's throat as he ground his cock even deeper.

"Fuckin' move _right_ , you bastard," Zoro snarled, the green head twisting so a single eye could glare at him. He pressed forward and caught a dangling earring between his lips, tugging on the smooth drop of gold even as he increased the speed of his hand on the other's cock. Pulling, twisting.

Slick. Hard. Hot. Zoro's cock in his hand. Zoro's ass around his own cock.

The other man groaned again, the sound shaking them both to the core. And suddenly he couldn't hold himself back anymore, rocking his hips out, then in. Swaying faster. Building a rhythm. Driving them both up. He was drowning in heat; fucking Zoro's ass while Zoro's cock fucked his hand. Licking skin. Sucking on hard flesh. Nipping. Hearing the hoarse gasps, the strangled grunts, the harsh exhalations come faster from the other. Savoring them like the sweet words of surrender they truly were.

It couldn't last. Even with Zoro's incredible endurance. And it didn't. "Moron, you're mine," Sanji growled against salt-sharp skin, biting down hard, and the other convulsed. Hot streams of come surged over his fingers, Zoro's body clenching almost painfully around his cock. Driving him over too with those urgent pulses, so that he jerked and spilled himself as deep inside the other as he could. Pressing in with a final surge, hip grinding into muscle, body taut and arching as he quivered to his own end.

They collapsed flat on the deck together, lungs working like bellows, bodies shaking with aftershocks. Zoro's body still spread wide and pierced, their skin melded together by sweat, Sanji buried his face in the nape of Zoro's neck and closed his eyes.

"Too damn hot…" someone breathed after a moment. "Yeah," the other agreed. But neither moved for a long while.

\--end--


	3. Sunset on Deck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The request was: Zoro/Sanji - sunset
> 
> For: tripoverhercats   
> Because she is all kinds of amazing.

He lay flat on the cool wood of the aft deck and waited as the sun slid closer to the horizon, swelling, sending long rays of heavy light across the sea. After sunset, things sometimes happened that would not happen during the light of day. Moods shifted. Possibilities opened.

He could hear the evening's usual activity in the galley through the open portholes behind him; the shouts, the laughter, the frantic clatter of dishes. He could smell the food. Feel the reflected warmth of his companions. But he had no impulse, for the moment, to join in, his body relaxed and wearied in a good way by the workout just completed.

Even as his heartbeat calmed, his muscles burned and his blood tingled, anticipation of another sort began to build. Still, his eyes were slits, watching Nature's glory in the approach of night. The sea was quiet. The wind light and steady. It was peaceful. After a few minutes, his head shifted slightly making the three bars in his right ear chime as he felt more than heard the soft thumps of slowly approaching footsteps.

He had long ago recognized the tread. The other stopped just inside striking range above his shoulder.

"Oi, shitty swordsman. Dinner."

He smelled the ubiquitous aroma of tobacco smoke and caught the mouth-watering scent of some rich meat and sauce offering, but didn't move or answer, still watching the sky.

The sun was just touching the horizon now, sinking fast, red-gold and swollen, sending streaks of pale purple and scarlet and orange across the high-streaked clouds above. Firing the ocean beneath in mirrored glory. So deadly and powerful, the sun, but so oddly serene as it set with a beauty that could not be denied.

He heard the shift of feet again. Felt the other move near. Sensed a presence crouching above his shoulder now.

There was a vaguely annoyed snort, then a soft clatter as a plate laden with food was set down beside him. His own hand shot out and closed around the wrist that had set it there before it could move away. He didn't tug but just held on, keeping the other from leaving. But other than a first startled jerk, there was no struggle against his hold.

"What are you doing, idiot?" the other murmured sharply. Not hostile, yet, but still more annoyed than pleased.

He did tug then, bringing the hand to his chest. He looked away from the sinking sun at last into the shadowed face above his, where a cigarette dangled from quirked lips, heavy-lidded eyes glittering beneath impossibly curled brows. Reached up with his free hand and plucked the burning cylinder away, tossing it aside even as he pulled the other the rest of the way down toward him with no resistance.

"Waiting for the sun to set," he said against smoke-flavored lips.

\--end--


	4. Watchful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hard and desperate. Just. Like. Them.

And he has the cook in front of him at last, bent over the end of the couch, one hand covering the other's desperately working mouth, the other wrapped around the cook's cock, stroking it.

He's driving in, deep and slick and tight. Fucking the other quietly. Biting back the grunts, the sounds, the growls he wants to make because it's night and they're in the bunkroom and the rest of the crew are asleep in the hammocks nearby.

They don't often do it in near public like this, but he couldn't wait any longer. Events lately had seemed to conspire against them finding privacy and time. So, a few minutes ago, the cook had come off watch, waking Chopper and sending the sleepy reindeer-man aloft. Then the cook had gone to step over Zoro where he was pretending to sleep on the rug in the center of the room on his way to settle on the couch for what was left of the night.

Zoro had reached up. Closed a hand around an ankle. Looked up into the cook's wary eyes where they stared down at him from his perfectly held balance on one foot, as always sharply aware of the incredible length of leg between them. Not just because those legs are the cook's weapons either. But he has to admit that holding those deadly legs spread wide with his own as he shoves deeper into the cook's ass is satisfying in a way all its own.

There had been no argument. No sharp words. No denial. Just an impatient hand fisting in his shirt, pulling him up, dragging him over to the couch where enough clothes melted away to bring skin to skin, heat to heat.

Now his bare stomach is pressed tight to the cook's back. His hip bones are grinding in the tight muscle of the cook's butt. His hot, surging breath is fluttering the thick hair on the man's sweat-damp neck. He can feel the sob of the cook's breath around his stifling hand, feel the hitch and jerk of the ribs beneath him as he drives in over and over again. So strong and vital that lean body; he can fuck the cook and not break him. He can drive in with all his strength and the cook will just press back, eager for more.

And he can kiss that ashy mouth and know that it's his flavor the cook is trying to erase when he lights up around the women later.

\--end--


	5. Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of Enies Lobby. Sanji POV

It's always a flood of so many things that he can't quite sort it all out whenever he sees the other man has survived another battle, and so, most often, it's anger that floats to the surface, winning control.  
Anger. To hide the longing, the regret, the fear. And the sheer, terrifying strength of the need that claws at him from the inside.  
It makes him sneer, prompts him to send devastating kicks the other man's way and sharpens his curses to near-lethal potency. But then he always curses, so that's not too beyond normality. And they fight all the time, but it keeps them both wary and in shape. But the sneer is the one that hurts him the most, inside where he never shows, where the hurt for Zeff lives. But he has to sneer at those times or he will smile like a fool and give it all away for the sheer, aching relief of seeing Zoro still alive. For a stubborn idiot seaweed-headed moron who can't enter a battle without leaving half a pint of blood, it seems, behind on the ground, yet survives time after time after time again.  
Not that the mere loss of blood slows him down any. Not that idiot swordsman. Stubborn to the end. Tough. Strong. Loyal. To captain and nakama. As they all are. Beyond reason, even. Beyond reality.  
But still, this battle may yet be their end. The island is filled with enemies. Strong ones. With stronger ones even to face ahead. And their way out could easily be cut off, deadly carpenters left behind or no.  
This could be it.  
Around him, Nami-san is fretting and pacing and cursing over Luffy's recklessness -- in ways he recognizes all too easily. And Chopper is fretting over the injured left behind. Only Zoro is watching calmly to the sides beside him, hand on his swords, face impassive, ready to drive off any foe stupid enough to attempt to board the massive king-bull they are riding. While he, Sanji, is smoking hard and handling the reins, guiding the beast straight into the fucking heart of the enemy's lair, but all he wants to do is reach back and grab a handful of green hair and finally take that one risk that he's never dared before.  
Taste Zoro's lips. See if they'd stay closed or open to him.  
But their enemies surround them in a flood deeper than the flood that they told him nearly took half of Water 7 away last night. And Robin still needs saving from her own nobility. And Nami is still there. But even with all that, he's almost ready to take that first kiss with Zoro and risk it maybe being the last.  
But only almost.  
He drives the king-bull on, deeper into battle, and Chopper moves up beside him and starts to talk to the beast and the moment is lost in the flood of danger and now.  


\--end--


	6. Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Zoro, Sanji, and a bit of friendly voyeurism taking place in the kitchen.

All the windows are open and the door is propped wide to catch the soft breeze and most of his nakama are laughing and shouting on the main deck below. It's some kind of game involving rolling bodies and a broom wielded by Nami-san, but she's laughing with them and not yelling. He watches for a while from the doorway as he smokes down his second cigarette of the day, but doesn't join in.

Robin-chan is sitting at the table behind him – having already stated her preference for the relative peace of the kitchen to the chaos of the deck below – and now has a freshly-brewed cup of coffee beside her and a thick pile of books at her elbow. He carried them up for her from the cabin below as an act of love, of course. They're heavy and old and written in obscure languages, but she seems well pleased, so he left her to her reading after offering her the coffee and his heart. She took the coffee and left his heart.

But his smile is content as he stubs out the cigarette on his heel, finished, and tosses the butt into the waste. He has breakfast dishes to wash so he can start on lunch sometime soon and a dinner to plan, but there's no hurry for any of it. He leans a shoulder against the door, head tilted so his forehead touches wood. It's a beautiful, calm summer day, after all, and not even the shitty swordsman slinking toward the open doorway to his kitchen can dim his pleasant mood.

"What do you want, idiot?" he asks without much annoyance. The dark gaze flickers over him, settling on his cigarette-less mouth.

"Eh? That's a change," the marimo says before glancing at the deck to be sure the others are too preoccupied to catch sight of them before cupping a hand behind his neck and drawing their mouths together. Their lips move slowly and surely against each other, sliding moist and easy and familiar, with only a hint of teeth and a swipe of tongue at the end.

Sanji lifts his hands from where they've spread themselves wide against the door behind him and pushes against the other man's chest, shifting him away. Not hard, but hard enough.

"You really are a manner-less dumbass, aren't you?" he murmurs, voice not quite as sharp as he'd intended. His hands linger a second too long against that warm chest too.

The other man glares at him, and the hand still cupping his neck flexes slightly. "I'm not saying please or thank you for that, shit cook."

They both hear a soft chuckle from inside the room then which makes the idiot swordsman's eyes widen and his face pales slightly even as Sanji's mouth twists in a rueful smirk. "Oh, don't mind me, cook-san, swordsman-san," Robin says with a smile. "I think I rather enjoyed the show."


End file.
